44 PLANNED AND PRICED FOR YOUNG PEOPLE " .( :- - .,: ..1 < :::::: : ::::: :::.:::: . . - . .. -- , .. , . . : :: :. " , ;; : 'y < . _ . > ... " , : . "' . .:: . : . ,> . :: . : < ::i , :ø' , ):':: , .....:. __ ; JJ: .... . . .... . ..;?P, i>< "-:'::-": . If you haven't the young point of view you may not like Aller- ton. You '11 find the bedrooms small, the lobbies active, íhe roofgardens too far up. But if you're young 1 You'll prefer a small bedroom when it means you can have game and lounge rooms. You'lllike the congeniality of the pop- ular-priced restaurants and Tap Rooms. You'll go mad about íhe breeze-swept roof on top of the world. AND YOU'LL PARTICULARLY APPRECIATE THE FINANCIAL ARRANGEMENTS. From $10.00 weekly. $2.00, $2.50, $3.00 daily. Special monthly arrangements. Allerton House for Women, Lexington Avenue at 57th Street. Fra- ternity Clubs Building, for Men and Women, Madison Avenue at 38th Street. Allerton House, for Men and Women, 143 East 39th Street. All convenient addresses as you can see. Look all three over, or write to the Fraternity Clubs for booklets about them. 'LLERTIN CLUB RESIDENCES . . . NEW YORK . . . .. :. . . , '" . . t. ' ,'... , Q .. tI :.: '" 'LJI, , ( '\i' e::. "û '"" I,. ! f . <. . . ' .l '. ",;I - .. h,. "'; .,' ./ t .. , "". " . I , I j ," ' \' 1\ ' 'I '. h , \ ( /11 . .1 ',II' ' r- t : " '\':-:'\: ' . ,.,' :t:- v: / '. , " . '.l'Iri ' : 11 \\ ft " ^_ '\" ' '-'\ :'.. --"'" ...... ......... "- ...........- lease runs out. I've got a hold on the guy, you see? If he tries to hike the rent, I'll say, 'All right, brother, I'll jack on the wheels and roll away from your god-damned ground.' You couldn't say that if you had a perma- nent building. Of course, you are not going to move away anywhere. But you can make him believe you are. "All right. That's that. And then you get down to the way these lunch- wagon people build up a layout. Look at my eguipment here. Everything a man could need, fixed just right and put in exactly the right place. You couldn't lay it out like that if you took a year to figure." I asked, "\Vhat can you cook here? \Vhat sort of dishes?" " B h " h . d " I k rot er, e sat, can coo any- thing that anybody in the world ever cooked. There's an oven for baking bread. There's a freezing system for making ice cream and custards. I can roast and broil and fry. Name any- thing, and I can make it. Name it." I said, "How about an egg souffié?" He looked at me. "I never heard of it," he said, "but if I can't make it, it's my fault, not the fault of the place. There's something in this joint to make one of those things out of. I guaran- tee that." "You saved up enough money work- ing for somebody else to buy this?" I asked. He laughed. "Maybe I knew the name of the right horse one day," he said. "Or maybe I caught a lucky run at dice. Anyhow, I own it now, brother, and I've got the papers to prove it." "How much do you take in on a good day?" "The best day I ever had," he said, "grossed me nine hundred and eighty- eight dollars and fifty- five cents. But that's the top. It was a day when something was going on at one of these aviation fields down the road. About a million people showed up, and all of 'em hungry. And remember, that was before beer came back. If I'd had beer that day, I'd have cleaned up thirteen hundred cold." T WO or three people came in, and he had to do some cooking for them. He was not fancy over his hot plate. He put the raw food down, and stirred it to prevent burning, and took it up again when it was done. He cut his bread in bold, honest slices. He dULY 2. I , 19:}+ drew the coffee from the huge, shining urn-a handsome thing if you ever saw one-with no attempt at a flourish. It was his job to feed men who were hun'gry, and he did that job as straight- forwardly as he could contrive. After the people had been fed and had gone away, he got out a crate of oranges, and cut them in two, and began putting them half by half through a squeezing machine. "I squeeze' em up for the day man," he said. "He gets a breakfast rush, and don't have much time. \Ve generally need about two gallons of it." "\Vhere does the rush come from?" I asked. "Truck-drivers and fellows going to work," he said. "They like my coffee. I've got regulars that have been ,here every morning since I took over fronl that Greek fellow. I give 'em good grub at a fair price. I pay nine cents a pound for my hamburger even, when most of these birds buy it for six or seven. " A thin boy came in and retired to one end of the counter, where he lounged as inconspicuously as possible. The boss paid no attention to him for a little while, beyond glancing in his direction, and went on telling me how he bought only the best of everything -real coffee with no chicory, no cold- storage eggs, good chickens from a farm woman down the road. \Vhen he had finished the catalogue, he spoke to the boy. "What'll it be, son? Roast turkey, maybe? Or a sirloin steak with mushrooms and onions? Or maybe it'll be Long Island duckling with po- tato stuffing?" He laughed hugely, and the boy grinned back at him a little painfully. The boss scooped up a hand- ful of ground beef from a pan, patted it out, and tossed it on the hot stove. The meat sizzled, and smelled good, and when he turned it over, the cooked side was a crisp brown. He tossed a few onions over it and watched them cook, and then he put the steak and onions between two big slices of buttered bread. Then he drew a cup of coffee, and put it down beside the sandwich on the counter. " 0 K " h . d " c d . ., son, e sal. orne an get it." The boy came quickly, and got the food, and carried it back to the end of the counter. "You can count on two or three of those every night," he said. "What?" I asked.